


If He Goes Where I Can't Follow

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Codependency, Crying, Jealousy, Light Bondage, M/M, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23786575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: How can Judas possess the love of a man who belongs to the masses? And what would he sacrifice, when his jealousy knows no bounds?
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot
Comments: 65
Kudos: 34





	If He Goes Where I Can't Follow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saffiaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffiaan/gifts), [expektcle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/expektcle/gifts).



At the beginning, the Word was simple.

Be kind to each other.

Spare a thought for the unfortunate.

Cast no stones unless you are yourself without sin.

Like all things passing through the hands of humankind, it grew and grew like a tumour, spreading like wildfire until their modest entreaties were barely recognisable. Judas was privy to the first inkling of trouble when the rest were blind to the signs – including the very heart of their revolution, the man he loved above all. The less loving and more tempestuous their great unseen God became, the more they yearned to please Him and the son he had gifted to the world. With heaven on their minds, they could barely see the earth beneath their feet.

And the beloved son of Nazareth, for all his humility, was entangled in his own greatness. In endeavouring to bear the weight of the crown others had bestowed upon him, he had forgotten what they sought to achieve. Judas tried to tell him; in stilted, sharp-edged words he told him so. And he knew that Jesus saw the truth in those words in the way he lowered his eyes and turned his face as if trying to deny what he could not claim false.

Yet their kisses were still tender, and the messiah’s mouth was soft as it yielded to his own. In Judas’ arms he was only a man, with a simple man’s needs.

Judas remembered the day some of the tenderness was lost. The day his heart grew tight in his chest and his own kisses grew harder, edged with desperation. It was the day Mary Magdalene held his one love with something more than comradeship in her eyes.

 _You forget who you belong to,_ he found himself thinking, before he could put a stopper on his venom. _How many reformed harlots will you save when I was the one who saved you first?_

His dislike was unfair, of course; he had no more right to judge the evils of promiscuity than anyone here. _Cast no stones._ Besides which, if the devoted look in Mary’s eyes was any indication, she had left her promiscuous ways far behind. And did she, too, believe the myths around the man – the walls that stood in the way of their uncorrupted truth? For such a sensible woman, she should know better.

“I’ll make you know better,” he whispered impotently, loathing the laughter they shared that he was being excluded from. He wished she would have chosen to lie with any of a thousand other men than claim the only man his heart and soul belonged to.

 _You forget who touched you first, before she touched you._ _Who made you forget your Lord even as you cried out His name._

So lost was he in the fog of jealousy that he barely realised when Jesus left Mary’s arms, and the perpetually needy arms of John ( _the sweet, vacant-eyed catamite,_ thought Judas most uncharitably), and stood once more beside him. A soft breath on his face. The soft pleading voice he used in the shadows when they were alone.

“Stay with me tonight,” he said simply. A hand slid into Judas’ own, and he took it. How could he refuse?

They walked together as friends and lovers do. Judas held his growing turmoil in check until they were behind a closed door. Then he lashed out to strike Jesus in the face.

Jesus reeled from the brutal backhand, weak-kneed with shock, collapsing in a heap in the floor. Silence weighed down the air like a black tombstone. Silence, save for the sobs Judas failed at last to hold back.

“Have I wronged you?” Jesus whispered. His eyes held confusion, but no hate. There was a bloody smear, a red ragged line, where Judas had landed the blow.

“Only with your faithlessness.”

“Faithless? What are you accusing me of? Judas – ”

“Were you thinking of me when you _fucked_ them? The whores at your service – Mary with her scented oils, John on his knees at a word from you. Perhaps you would like Peter, too; he is willing enough, much as he denies it.” Judas was not so much speaking as spitting now, rage pouring out like water from a broken dam. “The privilege of the flesh, laid at the messiah’s feet, as he forgets the one who made that offering before any of them!”

Slowly, as one approaches a wounded animal – as if he was not the one wounded – Jesus closed the distance between them. “I thought our love was not the selfish kind.”

Judas twisted the ring on his finger, the one that had cut Jesus’ face with a coldness he wished he truly possessed. “Then what does _this_ mean?” He tried to pull it off, but it had seemingly cleaved to his flesh and bone. “Does it mean nothing? Does a sacred vow mean _nothing?_ ”

“You _are_ sacred to me. Your love _is_ sacred, Judas! But it doesn’t mean we should turn our backs on the world and everyone in it!” Jesus cradled his weeping face despite his attempts to reject the embrace. “If tonight you were to lie with another – even as I called your name – I would not love you any less, not in the slightest. I _cannot_ love you less, any more than I can cease to breathe! Do you not understand?”

Judas shook his head. “I would never lie with another. I don’t _want_ to lie with another.”

“Then what you feel is envy, not love.”

Judas felt his body once more react against his better judgment. The wave of rage that shook him sent both him and Jesus slamming into the nearest wall. Jesus gasped as the back of his dark-haired head hit the beam of the low ceiling. _Good._ Judas wanted to hurt him _(Except no, no he didn’t)_. To make him hurt the way he hurt others with the callousness he called compassion. He pushed himself into the other man’s chest again. His knee drove itself into the unguarded belly. Jesus keeled forward into his arms, gasping for breath. His dark eyes bored into the lover that had become his abuser as if to ask: _Is this the end, then? Must we end this way?_

Instead, the words that left his soft lips were but two.

“Kiss me.”

And Judas did. Could he have resisted with all the hate in his heart? What was hate but a raging void to be filled?

Their kiss was long and deep and they held each other tight, and did not part until both were painfully breathless. But still Judas was not finished. He needed to see Jesus truly undone. Needed to see him lose control the way he had made Judas lose control.

He ripped the scarf from his neck and grabbed Jesus’ wrists to bind them before raising them to the beam to secure him in place. Gripped by the fever of his own want, the man did not object. When Judas tore open his shirt to expose him down to the belly, and then went on to expose him further down, he only arched his body upward like an offering. He was a giver by nature; and give all of himself he would, by choice or by force.

Judas parted his lips and took his lover in. His body, the rush of his blood, holy communion. The first uncontrolled moan from Jesus’ lips were sweet indeed. He suckled just enough to pull the man to the brink of that mindless desire that bleeds and bleeds like a wound until it is stemmed.

“Do you wish me to go on?”

“Judas. _Please._ ” He was helpless, and revelled in his helplessness, even as Judas gripped his hair and twisted it painfully.

“Beg me.”

“I beg you. I beseech you. Judas, my love, _have mercy.”_

Those were the last coherent words he uttered as Judas’ skilled mouth enveloped him and turned every breath into a desperate prayer. His eyes rolled heavenward, and Judas wondered if their faceless God stared back down at them, seeing the carnal acts committed upon his son. _I hope You do,_ he thought. _I hope You witness every blasphemous moment when he cries Your name while I use and abuse his flesh._

His own sex was aching, no, burning for release. But he was saving himself, not allowing so much as a single stroke. He wanted to be fully hard and ready for what was to come.

With a wet, obscene whine, he welcomed the heated rush into his mouth, swallowing it as eagerly as a babe at its mother’s teat. After he had milked every drop, he licked clean the whole length of the softening flesh, savouring the ragged panting from above.

Judas freed his captive, who could do little but collapse against him, all resistance gone. He half-carried Jesus to the bed that waited barely two feet away; for it was a small room, made to accommodate simple earthly needs. With his beloved laid out beneath him, beautiful and glowing and utterly pliant, Judas bestowed a trail of kisses from collarbone to navel. He let his lips travel further down until he reached the foot with its shapely toes, feet that Mary Magdalene had become far too acquainted with in the past few days as she indulged the messiah’s weakness for a good foot massage.

From the pocket of his tunic he produced a vial of golden oil. He took his time getting just the right amount, coating his fingers, as Jesus grew restless and impatient again, urging him on with demands until he slapped the unmarked side of that lovely face – lightly, not hard enough to hurt. But enough to remind him of his place. His true place.

“You lead best by serving,” he whispered. “Never forget that.”

Jesus made an incoherent sound. His eyes were half-lidded, dark lashes seductive against his lightly golden skin. At the feel of Judas’ fingers sliding in he let out a soft cry as if he had never been touched. Judas kept going until he had properly eased the way for himself, and then pushed the lithe thighs apart and began leisurely teasing, prodding. Tormenting himself when all his body longed for was the basest rutting, fast and hard, like a beast.

As he broke himself, so did he break his lover. Only when they were panting and whimpering for each other did he slide in right to the hilt, and give and take what they both needed. Push and pull. As inexorable as the tide. Breathless cries interlacing and interlocking into a song of love and madness.

“Witness me, God!” Judas cried before the moment of his climax. “Witness me despoil your only son, your pure and precious son, that you left to the mercies of a cruel world!”

Somewhere, faintly, he heard Jesus’s raspy, guttural sobs, quite unlike his usual graceful weeping. As if he was in exceptional pain. Judas’ heart rose to his throat. With all brutal urgency drained from him, only tenderness was left in its wake. He cradled his beloved, kissed his forehead, wiped his tears. Eventually the chest that heaved against his own grew still. 

_“Sleep and I shall soothe you, calm you and anoint you…”_ he hummed into the mass of dishevelled waves. _“If we try, we’ll get by, so forget all about us tonight.”_

Enough prophesying and soothsaying and bearing the burden of the lamb at the altar. In this tiny room, this narrow bed, there was nothing and no one but the two of them. “Let the world turn without you tonight.”

“They need me,” he murmured faintly, half asleep.

“I need you more.”

His arms tightened, clinging and greedy. _I pretend to tear him down,_ thought Judas, _because I’m afraid of myself._ As their Word became gospel and they unwittingly exchanged the pursuit of truth for the false splendour of worship, the man had begun to slip away from him. All too soon he would face the inevitable.

_I know I will lose him._

_I_ cannot _lose him._

He settled into the hard lumpen pillows, their shoddy comfort nullified by the soft weight of Jesus’ head on his shoulder. He wanted to inhale that familiar scent for all eternity, to die with the taste of that kiss on his tongue, to possess him completely. The roughness of dried blood brushed his cheek. Regretfully, his finger traced the cut on the beautiful face he had scarred in his wrath. He himself did not know the bounds of his seemingly boundless, raging need. And it frightened him.

_At the beginning, there was only us._

_At the end of things, I will let the world burn rather than see you turn from me._


End file.
